


Craving

by Twisted_Mind



Series: Irredeemable Filth: The Steter Collection [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Danger Kink, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Stiles, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: He’s quivering with anticipation when he settles on his hands and knees on top of his comforter. The thought of Peter giving him what he hasn’t let himself want is messing with him. He’s excited, wanting it, but scared, too. That it won’t be what he expects, from the few times he’s thought about it. That he won’t like it as much as he thought he would. That Peter won’t like it, once the novelty’s worn off. 


  Mostly he’s afraid he’ll like it too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DenaCeleste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/gifts).



> Okay, wow. So. This is for Dena, and also everyone else in Fandom Hell who screamed with me over it and helped bring it to life, which I know includes moonlightcalls and XCuteAsHale and I think also Mysenia. Thank you to BelleAmante for beta-reading, and holy shit I am so far down the fanfiction rabbit hole my body will never be found. 
> 
> Which means all of you need to say nice things about me at my funeral. Or the comment section. Y'know. Whichever.

 

Stiles doesn't know when _it_ started. Peter's a werewolf, and has always been drawn to his neck—as a predator, sure, but also as a man. It doesn't help that Stiles offers it up before Peter even asks—turning his head for Peter to scent, or kiss, or bite, baring it when he comes, his spine bowing. Peter likes trailing his fingertips along it when Stiles deepthroats him.

So, yeah. He’d suspected. But even still, the fact that he comes harder than he ever has in his life when Peter cups one hand around his throat while he's bent over his desk with Peter balls-deep inside him is a surprise. A good one, but still.

He's not 100% sure what just happened and doesn't really care, but Peter gets a calculating look in his eye. He doesn't make Stiles talk about it, though, so it's all good.

Right up until the day he backs Stiles against a wall, one hand gripping Stiles's throat with impossible-to-ignore pressure. His mouth drops open as his eyes roll back and his lashes flutter. His dick goes from flaccid to hard so fast he feels dizzy, even as the rest of him goes limp.

“Yes, I thought so.”

It’s so smug that he forces his eyes to open. Peter’s staring at him with something that can only be described as hunger. His grip loosens and Stiles whines. Peter drags his thumb over the curve of Stiles’s Adam’s apple. “I wonder, Stiles. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you not know, or were you too ashamed to admit it?”

Luckily Peter doesn’t seem to expect an answer, because he leans forward and takes Stiles’s mouth like he owns it. If he’s anything close to honest, this is Stiles’s favourite kind of kiss. It gets better when Peter grips him through his jeans, licking the moans out of his mouth while fondling him expertly. The whole time, the hand on his neck stays right where it is.

It’s heady, and he squirms just to feel the way Peter’s pinning him in place, his hips jerking and hands clutching at Peter’s shoulders, neck, hair. There’s warmth buzzing under his skin, and while he wants more, wants them both naked and coming, he doesn’t want to give up this part just yet.

Peter doesn’t seem to share the sentiment, because he bites at Stiles’s lower lip while his hands tighten where they’re fastened at Stiles’s windpipe and groin. His orgasm slams into him like a tsunami, so fast that it takes a minute for his brain to catch up and process what just happened. His eyes have rolled back, he’s whining, and most tellingly, he isn’t doing a damned thing about the fact that Peter just pinned him to the wall and strangled him.

He should be running for the hills. Instead, he’s creaming his pants like a 13-year-old and already craving more.

Peter steps away. “So, tell me, sweetheart—did you know you liked breathplay?”

It’s a direct question, one he can’t evade or lie about without also revealing the truth. But his silence and the flush scalding his cheeks is answer enough.

“You did.” Peter’s voice is low and dark with glee, and it frightens him a little. Peter must smell it, though, because he crowds close, pressing Stiles against the wall again as he murmurs between kisses. “It’s alright, darling. You don’t have to be ashamed. You know you can have anything you want. Did you think this was something I wouldn’t give you?”

Shame is crawling around in his guts, making a mess of his insides, but he’s still pliant under Peter, head obligingly turned so Peter can kiss and lave and mark to his withered heart’s content. “No, I-I knew you would.”

Peter pauses. “Then why hide it?”

He closes his eyes and mumbles the answer as quickly as he can, as if that will prevent Peter from hearing. “Because it’s wrong, and dangerous, and crazy, and extra all of those with you.”

But, rather than the censure he expects, Peter tuts. “I would never hurt you, sweetheart. Not in ways you don’t beg me for,” he chides. “And it would be safer with me than a human partner, because I can hear your heartbeat and smell your panic long before you pass out or safeword.”

He lets out a breath that feels like it goes on forever. “So you, you’re okay with doing this?”

“Sweet boy,” Peter growls, “I would be delighted.”

Stiles looks, sees the electric-blue of Peter’s wolf-eyes, and feels a fresh pulse of adrenaline floods his system. He licks his lips, his hands coming to rest gently on either side of Peter’s waist. “No, I mean—this won’t—you won’t, uh, slip?”

Peter drags his nose delicately up the still-exposed throat. “You’ve never truly been prey, Stiles.”

There’s a voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Lydia telling him that this is reckless and stupid. That it is possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done. He’s inclined to agree, but that doesn’t make him want it any less, so he slides his hands around to the small of Peter’s back, and lets the wall hold him up as he mutters, “Okay.”

Peter grips his jaw and eats at his mouth, starving. There’s more teeth than anything, and Stiles tries to give as good as he gets, but he knows that’s a lost cause.

When Peter pulls back, his eyes are hooded, fixed on Stiles’s throat. His thumb brushes softly back and forth over the artery. “You’re going to strip, and get on the bed for me. Hands and knees. You’re going to be sweet and patient while I open you up, and then I’m going to give you exactly what you’ve been craving.”

He whimpers his agreement. It’s not actual words, but it’s good enough for Peter. As he’s struggling to get naked faster than humanly possible, Peter speaks again, and the tone makes him still. “Oh, and Stiles? If I find out you’ve been hiding from me or holding back again, I’ll make you regret it. Consider this your first and only warning.”

He doesn’t move again until Peter’s hand lands a heavy tap on his ass. “Understood?”

He’s subdued when he murmurs, “Yes, sir,” but the squeeze Peter gives the cheek he just slapped tells him it’s okay. Peter’s not mad. Not this time.

He’s quivering with anticipation when he settles on his hands and knees on top of his comforter. The thought of Peter giving him what he hasn’t let himself want is messing with him. He’s excited, wanting it, but scared, too. That it won’t be what he expects, from the few times he’s thought about it. That he won’t like it as much as he thought he would. That Peter won’t like it, once the novelty’s worn off.

Mostly he’s afraid he’ll like it too much.

Peter runs a hand up his back, startling him and bringing him back to the present moment. Peter repeats the motion, his broad hand pressing hot and solid against Stiles’s skin, and it’s calming. The trembling stops and his breathing evens out.

“That’s my good boy. Now, stay right there for me.”

He tries, but it’s hard not to cant his hips when Peter’s slicked fingers begin prodding between his cheeks. Harder still not to rock backward when the first one slips inside as if he’s made of spun sugar, as if he’s shiny-new and they haven’t done this a hundred times. By the time Peter’s working the second inside, twisting and curling ever-so-slowly, he’s panting and halfway to hard again.

He drops to his elbows, face buried in his pillow, when Peter jabs at his prostate. Peter sounds amused. “I told you to stay where you were.”

He lets out a high-pitched whine when Peter spreads his fingers and skates over his prostate again. “T-tried. Felt too—too good.”

Peter hums, considering. His fingers disappear for a moment, and then return with more lube and a third. “I really ought to land a few strokes on your ass for that, but it would undo all the hard work I’ve already put into loosening you up. So I suppose I’ll have to punish you some other way.”

He couldn’t stop the moan that rips free if he tried. “Please!”

“Soon,” Peter promises. He gets to it, then, working Stiles open methodically, bracing a clawed hand on his belly to keep his hips up. The fact that Peter’s _claws_ —literally deadly weapons—are so close to his dick should not make him start leaking, but it does.

“I’m going to make you come untouched. That seems a fitting punishment, don’t you think?”

Stiles whines his agreement. He can come on Peter’s cock alone, but it’s hard, and takes a long time. He knows that Peter will enjoy watching him get increasingly desperate. So, yeah. It’s fitting alright.

But he’s smart, so he says none of that as Peter carefully pushes inside. He’s panting, trying to adjust, because no matter how thoroughly Peter stretches him it’s never enough to prepare him. Fingers and toys aren’t the same as accepting his Sir inside his body, as knowing that he’s providing Peter pleasure.

The first few thrusts are slow. There’s hardly any force behind them. It still feels like being carved open, like Peter’s opening up a space that belongs just to him, even though it’s Stiles’s body. He breathes deep and lets it happen, lets Peter decide how much and how fast, lets Peter open him up and move him.

It isn’t long before he’s panting into his sheets, fully hard again as Peter ruts against his ass and drags over his prostate again and again. There’s electricity gathering in his pelvis, but he knows his orgasm isn’t anywhere in reach. Not yet.

That’s when Peter slides a hand up his chest to wrap around his throat. His heartbeat takes off in surprise and animal fear, but in excitement and _yesgodplease_ too. Peter uses his grip to drag Stiles up, up, up, until he’s balancing precariously on his splayed knees, his back flush with Peter’s chest. Peter’s other arm wraps around his waist, holding him there, and he scrabbles at it because he can’t do anything else. He needs to hold onto something or he’s going to fly apart, because Peter hasn’t stopped thrusting, and the assault on his prostate plus the way Peter has him completely helpless is almost too much.

Then Peter’s grip tightens, and he falls apart.

He wraps his other hand around Peter’s wrist as his mouth works. Peter’s cut off his air, and he’s suddenly aware of his whole body in a way he didn’t know was possible. The deliberate pressure at his throat. The rush of his heart pounding in his ears, blood racing through his body. The way every muscle is straining toward orgasm just as hard as his lungs are for air. The tingles that are dancing across his skin in waves. The way the rhythm of Peter’s hips and the push-drag of Peter’s cock feels like a chant of _take it take it take it._

His vision goes hazy as he comes with Peter growling, “Mine,” into his ear.


End file.
